The story of Bartimaus is the first Bible passage I ever meditated with in that way. And it has belonged to me ever since. I have been Bartimaus. I have screamed blindly from the margins of the crowd. I have listened to Jesus' question to me, "What do you want me to do for you?" I have felt what it could be like to live in darkness and then open my eyes and see the face of Jesus looking at me with a wisdom and compassion that heals and fills me with light. For more than thirty years, every time I read or hear this passage, I glow with the memory of that first meditation experience. Like a flowering perennial lovingly planted by a long-absent gardener, this passage blooms richly for me over-and-over, thanks to one little gift I was given in this place.

In a way, my vision, the way I see everything, is seen through the multi-colored filters of my experience of St. Peter's and Oxford. It is here that God became very real for me; here I discovered my life's vocation, and my life's partner. Wherever I go, I carry Oxford and St. Peter's with me. I'm grateful for a chance today to say thank you.

It is amazing the way each one of us learns to see the world. There are so many subtle influences. It does indeed take a village to raise a child. In the bulletin today is a story about Mrs. Whiteside's class. She taught generations of St. Peter's children to love the Church Year -- it's seasons and symbols and colors. One of the reasons I am a priest today is because of people like Mrs. Whiteside who made this church a place of nurture and wonder for me. St. Peter's was so welcoming and comfortable that it was like another home for me. But it was also so mysterious and wonderful, that it was the gate of heaven as well. Never underestimate the power of this church, and the importance of your presence and ministry in it.

In 1980 I returned from seminary for my ordination to the deaconate here. It was a joyful occasion. St. Peter's was filled with the people who had raised me and been my friends. I processed to my place in the chancel, looked over the congregation and felt so happy. But then my eyes lit on Miss Dolly Falkner, standing rifle erect, primly dressed wearing one of her hats. I choked up. I was overcome with emotion. It wasn't because I had ever really known Miss Dolly. In fact, she scared me. She seemed so stern to me. She was one of the ladies who let us know that kids are not to run down the halls at church. But there she was in the same seat in the same pew where she had been every Sunday of my entire life, as far as I could remember. Her faithful presence and her obvious joy that night overwhelmed me. Until that moment, I had been blind to the profound impression her faithfulness had made on me. Think about that the next time you really want to sleep in on Sunday. You never know what impact you are making on that bratty little kid across the aisle. I'm sure Miss Dolly never knew how profoundly she had influenced me with her faithfulness, at least not until her resurrection. Now she knows.

The next year James Meredith enrolled at Ole Miss with the resulting riots and military occupation. My father, a lawyer, was deeply committed to the rule of law. Segregation was illegal according to federal law, and so he was in a definite minority as one who quietly supported de-segregation. But children pick these things up from their parents. And I remember when my fifth grade teacher, an unreformed Confederate, got so fed up with everything one day she asked fiercely of our class, "How many of you in this room are integrationists?" She spat the word out of her mouth like it was dirty. Kenny Vaughn and I held up our hands. We were the only two in a class of more than thirty. At the next break, my girl friend at the time (you remember fifth grade romance?) met me with fury, throwing my chain (do you remember trading chains?) on the ground, remonstrating me with outrage -- "Don't you know, that when a white person marries a nigger their babies are always niggers?"

It is a wonderful gift to grow up in a culture that was wrong about something important. It gave me the gift of open curiosity, a willingness to set aside my inherited knowledge and values whenever they were challenged by something I didn't yet understand. And the story of how Oxford and Ole Miss ultimately peacefully desegregated is a story that gives me confidence and hope whenever I've needed to live through conflict and change. It is a grounding foundation of hope that sustains me today. I learned about shifting paradigms before I knew the words, thanks to the privilege of growing up here.

So it happened that when I was a freshman at Ole Miss and a professor challenged my faith with questions I had no answer for, it was the most natural thing in the world to let go of my old understanding -- I announced to my family that I was an agnostic -- and still to come to worship regularly at St. Peter's feeling fully at home though an unbeliever. This church had taught me that seekers were welcome, that questions are part of the journey, that disagreeing and remaining in communion is acceptable. So I stayed in church until I discovered new answers and eventually returned to the faith of my childhood in a deeper place.

I want to mention one more gift I received here. In my early twenties, I was the token kid on the vestry. Our senior warden was Roger McHenry. Roger was an engineer, and he loved statistics and graphs. At stewardship time, he showed us graphs. Lots of graphs. A dot-graph showing every pledge, line graphs of various kinds -- average pledge; median pledge; giving goals; average percentage increase to meet our goals; average dollar increase to meet our goals. On the graphs I could see my pledge -- my dot. I pledged $2 a week. I hadn't really thought about it and that was about the cost of a movie. Roger talked about proportionate giving -- pledging a percentage of your income. That made sense to me; relate your giving to your receiving. I was fresh out of school, making $7,500 a year, more than I could spend. I bought into proportionate giving, and, since it was traditional, I pledged as my proportion 10%. After the Every Member Canvass was over, Roger showed us some new graphs. My favorite one was the dot graph showing percentage increases of each pledge that increased. I still can't do the math, but I could spot my dot as the only 700% (or so) increase. That's never happened again, but Kathy and I have tithed all of our life together. And that's been a satisfying lesson learned from this congregation.

St. Peter's has been Christ to me, giving me vision to follow the way. I want to thank you. But more than that, I want to encourage you to continue this good work with energy and hope. Embrace your ministry and presence here. There is no way for you to know what impact you are making, even by your silent presence, like Miss Dolly. Parents, bring your kids to church so it can be their second home and a place where they encounter the wonder of divine mystery. Congregation, continue your work of racial reconciliation that this parish has become known for. And continue to be open to transformation and change. We always have something to learn in this lifetime process of healing and growing. At this particularly sensitive time in our church's history, I encourage you to stay, regardless of the state of your belief or non-belief. I know that this is a good place to search; it is a good place to ask questions; it is a good place to disagree and remain in communion. Finally, I hope you will give. I would hope everyone would tithe or give some other proportionate gift to this church. It feels good to participate in such a committed way to God's work through the church. I discovered that it was literally true for me, "Where my treasure is, there goes my heart." And I can tell you as one beneficiary of this parish's ministry, you can't put a dollar amount of what it is worth.

What St. Peter's has given me is of infinite value. You have given vision to this Bartimaus.